"Hell hath no fury like a president upstaged."

Sandy grinned. "You know, FC did look pretty good. And when I left the command deck, I thought she looked a little smug."

"It's funny now, but . . ."

By breakfast the next morning, the Nixon had completed seven ever-expanding circuits of the earth. The planet, nineteen thousand kilometers away, was fully visible as a ball. The Nixon had lost almost half its speed, but no one could doubt that it was leaving the earth behind. The day before, the crew had been jubilant, hyper. By the next morning, everyone was simply subdued. For the next year, for better or for worse, the Nixon would be their entire world.

They were stuck with each other. No chance for second thoughts, no opportunity to back out.

John Clover finished his usual breakfast of pancakes, tofu sausage, and orange juice, looked at Becca and asked, "What?"

"Nothing. I've been up here for weeks, never a thought about it-the separation. Now I'm thinking about it." She pushed an egg around her plate, nibbled at a piece of toast.

"Well, stop thinking about it."

"Not always that easy." She looked past him, at the shrinking Earth out the window, and at the altitude display, which was steadily clicking off kilometers like a second hand, each clock-tick marking their increasing separation from home.

"No, but you'll get used to it," Clover said.

"How do you know that? Maybe I'll fabricate a hatchet and run screaming through the ship . . ."

"First, don't let Crow hear you say that. Second, tens of thousands of people are sent to prison in the United States every year. Conditions are not good, but the vast majority manage to survive long periods inside when they are effectively as contained as we are. Many times, brutally contained, without access to any society at all. We, on the other hand, are all quite comfortable, well-tended, and engaged in one of the most prestigious adventures in the history of the world. We'll all be famous in our various professions. You already are."

"I couldn't handle prison, either," Becca said.

"Sure you could. In fact, if you were telling the truth about your last job, you were in a kind of prison-at least, a little green man from Mars couldn't have told the difference. You woke up in one building, went to another building, spent the entire day there, until late at night, then went back to the first building, where you went to sleep. Here, you wake up in one building, take an elevator to the engineering department, work all day, and come back here to sleep. Same exact thing that you had been doing."

"But back home, I could go out when I wanted to."

"But you didn't. Not often."

"But if I poked a hole in the wall of my apartment, or a hole in the wall of a prison, the world would be outside. Apple trees and birds. Poke a hole in one of our walls, and there's nothing out there but a giant void. Nothing but a black, airless hole and meaningless death."

Clover smiled and said, "Take a pill. No, wait-don't take a pill. Pull your shorts up and go back to work. You're in an office building. Don't worry about it."

After a little more chat, Becca checked the time and said, "I like talking to you, John. I'm in an office building. I'm going to work. Nothing to worry about. And now, I gotta go to work."

As she walked away, Clover leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes: poke a hole in one of our walls, and there's nothing out there but a giant void. Nothing but a black, airless hole and meaningless death.

Oh, Jesus Christ, he thought. What have I done?

By lunchtime, the Nixon's altitude had almost doubled, by dinnertime, nearly tripled. The earth was more than fifty thousand kilometers away. Still the most impressive object in the sky, thirty times the size of the full moon, the big blue marble was diminishing with each hour.

The Nixon was more than halfway through its eighth outward-bound loop around the earth, but it would never complete the orbit. Shortly before eight o'clock, Sandy walked through the Commons room and found Clover staring at the earth as it swept past with the rotation of the spacecraft. He was not alone. Everyone who wasn't on duty seemed mesmerized by the shrinking Earth, sliding past the window, hypnotic as a stage magician's swinging watch.

The PA system pinged. "This is Captain Fang-Castro. Our altitude is sixty-eight thousand kilometers and our velocity is three-point-three kilometers per second. We are now on an escape trajectory. Our next stop is Saturn. This will be the last status report of the day. Everyone have a good night."

Clover sighed and smiled at Sandy. "On our way. Thank God. Life gets easier when there aren't any choices, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"Less than a day and we'll be out past the moon," Clover said. "Hope we don't hit it."

Sandy laughed and said, "That'd embarrass the shit out of the orbit guys, huh?" He watched for another minute, then said, "I'm heading for the gym. Stink the place up a little, so it's more like home."

Clover said, "Good idea. I'll catch you there."

Sandy left and Clover turned back to the view screen. Even if the engines cut off this very second, they'd never return to Earth. They'd just coast through the solar system forever. Gravity no longer bound them to home and they were heading into deep space.

In an office building, Clover thought. In an office building with his faithful cat.

"Good morning, this is NPR and you're listening to a special edition of Science Friday. I'm Flora Lichtman and today we have a first: a live broadcast from an interplanetary mission. With us is Dr. Rebecca Johansson, who is the senior power engineer aboard the U.S.'s spaceship to Saturn, the Richard M. Nixon, which launched two days ago. The Nixon is already approaching the moon's orbit, so there'll be about a three-second light-speed delay between my questions and Dr. Johansson's replies.

"First, Becca, thanks for taking the time to talk to our listeners-we know you've a busy schedule."

BECCA: That's an understatement, but it's my pleasure to be here. I'm a big fan of the show.

FLORA: Becca, you're a nuclear power plant engineer, not a rocket scientist. Why are you part of this mission?

BECCA: The propulsion system for the Nixon isn't a conventional nuclear rocket like the Chinese are using-it is, in large part, an electric power plant. That's where my primary responsibilities lie.

FLORA: Can you explain the difference in the engines on the two ships?

BECCA: Sure, the Chinese are using a nuclear thermal rocket. Take a nuclear fission reactor, get it real hot, and pump hydrogen through it. The hydrogen heats up and jets out the back, and there's your rocket engine. The only difference between their engine and a chemical rocket is that they're heating the gas in a fission reactor instead of by combustion.

FLORA: Okay, and the U.S. mission is using . . . ?

BECCA: An engine that's never been used on a major space mission before, called a "va-si-meer" . . .

FLORA: You better spell that.

BECCA: V-A-S-I-M-R, which stands for "Variable Specific Impulse Magnetoplasma Rocket."

FLORA: Oh, well, that clears everything up!

BECCA: [laughter] Well, then, my work here is done. Okay, before everyone tunes out . . .

FLORA: It may be too late for that [more laughter] . . .

BECCA: What we have is a really big, fancy kind of ion engine. We take a gas and ionize it-knock an electron or two off of each atom so instead of being electrically neutral, each atom has a positive charge. We funnel those ions into a big particle gun. It uses magnetic and electric fields to grab those ions and accelerate them to very high velocities. We squirt them out the back, and there's your rocket exhaust.

FLORA: So where does the reactor come in?

BECCA: Reactors, actually. We have two. That way in case something goes wrong with one, the Nixon isn't dead in space. The reactors come in because our rocket engine uses electricity. It takes electric power to ionize the gas and it takes electric power to generate the magnetic and electric fields that accelerate the ions. We use the reactors to power an electric plant, just as we would on Earth.

FLORA: Then, the ship's power plant is a lot like the systems you're used to designing for electric utility companies?

BECCA: Yes, which is why they want my expertise. But there are some important differences. The ship's power plant is considerably bigger than any reactor complex in commercial use. It puts out nineteen gigawatts of thermal power. That's an awful lot of power in a small space, and make no mistake, it is a small space. The reactors themselves wouldn't fill up this room.

FLORA: Wow. Why are reactors in regular power plants so much larger?

BECCA: Partly because they don't have to be any smaller. It's a lot harder to manage that kind of power in a small volume than a large one. Also, the reactor on Earth is surrounded by tons and tons of shielding and containment vessels to protect people and the environment from its contents. In our spaceship, we dispense with most of that. The reactors are all the way at one end of the ship and just need a small shielding cap to provide a radiation shadow for the occupied portions of the ship. We don't need a big, bulky containment vessel. If something goes wrong and the reactor fails catastrophically, that's gonna be the end of us, anyway. My job, along with the reactor designers, is to make sure that won't happen.

FLORA: Okay, then, what makes a VASIMR better than a tried-and-true nuclear thermal rocket?

BECCA: Two things-the first is that we can get a much higher exhaust velocity out of the VASIMR. That means we can go a lot faster using the same amount of reaction mass. I think I can explain how that works to your listeners.

FLORA: I certainly hope so.

BECCA: Imagine you're on a pair of roller skates and you're holding a bowling ball. If you throw the bowling ball away from you, you start rolling backwards. Action balances reaction, thank you, Newton. Now suppose instead of a bowling ball, you have a small pistol that you fire. What happens? The bullet goes forward and the recoil sends you rolling backwards. A very small mass, like that bullet, can push you just as hard as the bowling ball did, if it's going very fast. The VASIMR gives us a lot more push than a nuclear thermal rocket would, for the same amount of reaction mass.

FLORA: And the second thing?

BECCA: This part's a bit peculiar. The way rocket physics works, it takes a lot more energy to get the ship up to speed with a high-velocity exhaust than with low velocity. Our fast-moving ions are very efficient at using a small amount of reaction mass but very inefficient at using small amounts of energy.

To put it another way, if we want to use as little reaction mass as we can, we want to throw bullets. But if we want to get the most speed from our power plant, we want bowling balls.

In between those extremes is a happy medium. If we adjust the exhaust velocity as we go, we can get by with a ship that's about half as big as it would be with a fixed exhaust velocity. Rocket scientists call the exhaust velocity "specific impulse," which is where the first three words of the engine's name come from: "variable specific impulse."

FLORA: On to my next question. If VASIMRs are better than thermal nuclear rockets, why didn't the Chinese use them in their ship?

BECCA: VASIMRs have one big disadvantage-they're electric. A nuclear thermal rocket puts all its heat energy into the exhaust, it's essentially one hundred percent efficient. We have to convert the heat of the reactor into electricity and using every trick we know, we can only do that with fifty-five to sixty percent efficiency. The other forty-odd percent? It's waste heat, and if we don't get rid of it the ship'll fry. To give you an idea how much heat I have to deal with, it's as if you took all the power used by a city the size of, say, Minneapolis, and stuffed it inside our little bitty rocket. My job is to get rid of it!

Believe me, that's not easy. There's a lot of specialized plumbing, some humongous heat radiators, the whole thing is very complicated. Our early tests . . . well . . . we had some hiccups.

FLORA: That radiator test in orbit last January?

BECCA: Ummm, yeah, that didn't go so well. But cutting-edge engineering is like that. That's why we test instead of just flying off. Anyway, a gas core reactor with a hydrogen flow-through, like the Chinese use, is child's play compared to this. That's a lot more stable and we have a lot more experience with it. If we didn't need to be going really, really fast, we'd never be using VASIMRs. The Chinese were originally going to Mars. They didn't need to be going anywhere that fast. A simple nuclear thermal rocket would get them there in a few months with a very reasonable mass-to-payload ratio. To get that same ship to Saturn, though, they had to hot-rod the whole setup, add some truly monstrous hydrogen tanks for the additional reaction mass they need, and it's still going to take them a year and a half to get there. They are the tortoise and we're the hare. This time, though, the hare is going to win the race.

FLORA: Thank you very much for your time, Becca.

As the Nixon passed the moon's orbit, it officially entered interplanetary space. The ship was finally starting to show what it was made for. By interplanetary standards, its velocity was still modest, at six kilometers per second relative to Earth, but now the Nixon was essentially free of Earth's gravity. The thrust of the VASIMRs produced a small but steady acceleration that piled another four kilometers per second onto the ship's velocity each and every day. It had taken about sixty hours to pass lunar orbit, but another sixty would see the Nixon some two million kilometers from Earth.

The Nixon's nose was pointed directly sunward, so that the VASIMRs' thrust could push its orbit into a tighter and tighter ellipse, a trajectory that would skim the sun at a scorching thirty million kilometers.

That was well within the orbit of Mercury, and the sun's light would be twenty-five times as intense as it was on Earth. The small risk was worth it: the sun's gravity was equally fierce; they'd be whipping past the sun at better than a hundred kilometers per second but the gravity would still bend the spaceship's heading by forty degrees, putting the Nixon on track for a Saturn rendezvous. That was Howardson's "solar slingshot" trajectory, the one that would let them beat the Chinese to Saturn.

Martinez and the other handymen began prelim work on rigging the solar parasols to protect the ship. The parasols didn't need to be anything fancy: they weren't going to be there that long, and once the Nixon was past the sun, they'd be jettisoned. They would be large-hundreds of meters on a side, but that was nothing compared to building the Nixon in the first place. Deployment wasn't imminent, as perihelion was a month away. Still, it was something to do.

As the Nixon left Earth's orbit, the crew began self-consciously to develop daily routines.

There was a constant stream of information coming in from Earth, so the Internet and all the related research facilities were there for the academics; and the maintenance people always had work to do.

For most of them, the Nixon's voyage was their first experience living in a low-gravity environment. One-tenth gee wasn't much in the way of artificial gravity, not enough to prevent loss of bone density, some atypical edema, and other signs of space deterioration.

Too many of the residents were out of shape, and for the first time in their lives, had to maintain a strict regimen of daily physical exercise. If they didn't, returning to Earth would be a nightmare, with elevated risks of broken bones or heart attacks.

Sandy found himself in demand as a physical trainer, and led two classes a day in core exercises, and spent an hour working out himself under the eye of Marine Captain George Barnes, a physical fitness nut. Sandy enjoyed the workouts, but never, in all his gym experience, had he heard so much bitching and moaning. Fang-Castro ordered monitoring of all physical activity, logging both cardiovascular exercise and resistance training for every crew member.

John Clover taught a weight class, with steel weights fabricated by Martinez from bits and pieces of space junk left behind at the Nixon's former niche in Earth orbit. Clover had been out of shape for years, and now found himself slimming down and adding muscle at the same time.

Roger Ang, the violinist/psychiatrist who'd been worried about the tone of his rare instrument, turned out to have been a college wrestler, and taught a popular wrestling class, which combined both cardio and resistance. The first time they wrestled, he pinned Crow four times in less than two minutes, despite the low gravity, which made it more difficult to keep an opponent pinned to the floor.

As they headed for the showers, Sandy said to Crow, "He kicked your ass. A pencil-necked shrink. A fuckin' violinist. A snowflake. A delicate little flower . . ."

"In sports, the rules define outcomes," Crow said. "He won because I wasn't allowed to bite his nose off, knee him in the balls, or gouge his eyes out."

"There's gotta be some rules," Sandy said.

"Really? I hadn't heard that."

- Seven bands, an orchestra, three string quartets, and two choirs popped up within days. Sandy and Martinez put together a Country/RhythmTech trio, with Imani Stuyvesant, an exobiologist who played drums. Fiorella, as it turned out, having grown up in Bakersfield, California, was an expert two-stepper. She began giving dance lessons. Crow hadn't brought an instrument along, but admitted to Sandy that he'd once played an upright bass in high school and in the Naval Academy orchestra.

"If you played an upright bass, you could play an electric-it's all just ears," Sandy told him. "I'll start fabricating an electric one in the shop. We need a bass player."

Crow didn't say "no."

Because of the low gravity, activities took on a bit of a slow-motion quality, like living in a special-effects movie. The new crew members learned to act more deliberately, because an unthinking gesture or swipe of the hand could much more easily send objects flying across the room. Tossing a salad without scattering greens all over the table was a delicate art. Get careless reaching for a coffee cup and you'd knock it off your desk. It would take three times longer to hit the floor, but you'd still have to clean up the mess.

Consequently, most crew members found living in one-tenth gee a little surreal. Still, it was more familiar and comfortable for most of them than living in zero-gee, which they would pass through when moving from one habitat module to the other. A few liked it better than Earth gravity Like Mr. Snuffles. His favorite space was the cafeteria/commons, where there was always an ailurophile or two or three to slip him treats-bits of tofu salmon, tofu beef, tofu chicken, engineered to the point where not even a cat's taste buds could tell the difference.

Becca sat at her desk, pondering an uncompleted e-mail to home, one eye on the clock. Because of the security team's paranoia, she couldn't write much about the things she was most directly working with: the reactors.

Outgoing mail was computer-scanned for sensitive content, and if any were found, the computers triggered a look by humans. So, no shoptalk about the mission. She could mention that they were twelve days into their flight and sixteen million kilometers from Earth, accelerating toward the sun, but that was about it. Nor did she feel inclined to get very personal, with who knows who reading over her shoulder.

That left shipboard routine, which was both sensible and irritating.

Like the mandatory lights-out. The ship's computer, under the direction of the ship's doctor, would be killing the lights in her room in half an hour, at 23:00. Sleepy-bye time-it made her feel like she was nine years old again, on a school night.

In this case, though, the logic was unassailable. She had ultimate responsibility for the ship's power systems, and the docs had decided that her usual workaholic running-herself-ragged style was not conducive to the ship's safety. Fatigue could lead to errors in judgment; errors in judgment in space lead to death.

Consequently, she was required to spend eight hours in bed every night. She wasn't required to sleep. She could twiddle her thumbs, calculate cube roots in her head, or chant her mantra, as long as she was in bed with the lights out.

So, she slept. And, she had to admit, her working day seemed to go more smoothly and her attitude toward the world was brighter. She still resented the parental authority. Her mother and father found the irony to be vastly amusing.

She'd just finished the letter when something bumped the leg of her chair; she felt it in her still-plump butt, though the mandatory gym time seemed to be making it a bit less plump.

Uh . . . bump?

There was nothing in the room to bump the chair-it had come up through the floor. Which meant the whole ship had bumped. It was a pretty unimpressive bump; if she hadn't been sitting stock-still and relaxed at her desk, she wouldn't have even felt it. But there weren't supposed to be any bumps at all. The compensating actuators that coupled the propulsion modules to the rest of the ship ought to catch all of those.

A meteor strike?

She pulled up a comm window and called Engineering. "Talk to me."

Wendy Greenberg's face popped up: another MIT grad, thin, intense, vid specs linked to the major readouts. Before Becca could ask, Greenberg said, "I was about to call. Reactor 2 safed itself."

What? "How's Number 1?"